


The Spawn of Your Immaturity

by Starshearted (cthulhucorp)



Category: RWBY
Genre: Abuse, Beating, Child Abuse, Circus, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Physical Abuse, Physical Disability, Whipping, a really Sketchy Circus, awkward second person, tyrian is severely near and far sighted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 22:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10908438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthulhucorp/pseuds/Starshearted
Summary: The chime of a circus tune ring ring rings in your head.The unsteady pressure of a wobbling steel chord is digging into your feet.The whip is stinging your back with every near-fall.Your name is Tyrian Callows, and you're in fucking hell.





	The Spawn of Your Immaturity

**Author's Note:**

> Anyways here's something i wrote while putting off my essay

Your name is Tyrian callows.

 

You're 12 years old. Or maybe you're only 10. It's been years since your last birthday, and the memories of your age have faded, your mind instead set in tune to remember juggling techniques, how to use a trapeze, how to walk the rope, how to twirl and spin. You see, Tyrian, you belong to a circus. An on the road carnival, of sorts. It's nothing grand. A circus that travels the roads of Vacuo and Vacuo only, it's only claim to fame being... what, you ask?

 

You, Tyrian. Tyrian Callows is a name that is lost to the wind, even if you are the one thing that draws in the real customers. You see, that tail sprouting from your body is painted day in and day out, to the point where it's almost stained the hard covering. A scorpion tale. An arachnid faunus. Potentially the rarest of all of them. When the Ring Leader, a human of short stature, and his lackey, a bull faunus that could most likely kill you with the flick of his finger, found your small self running rampant in the streets of a tiny town, they just couldn't help themselves. You were 6 at the time. A small scorpion faunus with far too much spirit and fight for something so small and...

blind.

 

Your parents never saw you after that day. Your mothers lullabies became a distant memory, replaced with the repeating music of the carnival organ a friendly cat faunus played. Their hugs and gentle touches were a feeling lost to time, replaced instead with the stinging of a whip on your back, your chest, your legs and arms, your body too scarred for it's small size. Memories of your childhood fled and were replaced with the much less fond ones of the circus.

You, the "Deathstalker Faunus".

 

The chime of the organ strikes your ears.

The thick metal rope is digging into your bare feet.

Your back is bleeding, the Ringmaster's whip collapsing into the fragile skin with ever near fall.

 

Your name is Tyrian Callows, and you're in fucking hell.


End file.
